A Mug, a Notebook and Nine Mince Pies: The Supermarket Christmas Audit

There is a particular kind of November afternoon that demands a mince pie. Not a celebratory one, not a carol-singing one, just a quiet kitchen-table one with a mug of tea and the radiator doing its best. So I bought nine supermarket own-brand boxes, laid them out like a very beige chessboard, and conducted what I am choosing to call a taste test. My wife called it “the afternoon you ruin Christmas by being fussy about pastry”. Fair enough.

The rules, such as they were

This was blind-ish. I decanted each pie onto a plain plate, numbered the plates, and kept the boxes out of sight. I did not achieve scientific neutrality because I could still see the pastry shapes, and because the cat kept walking across the scoring sheet. Marks were given for pastry, filling, the all-important lid situation, and general festive cheer. The tea was PG Tips, brewed strong, no sugar. It is not a sponsor. It is just what was in the cupboard.

The lid test mattered more than I expected. A mince pie should not collapse the moment you bite it. It should not fire raisins across the room like tiny festive shrapnel. It should hold together long enough for you to look dignified in front of the kettle. Several did not.

The ones that missed the mark

9th place: the pastry that forgot to be pastry. One box produced pies with a lid so pale and fragile it looked like it had been fitted by someone who had heard about baking second-hand. The filling was fine — spiced, sticky, pleasant — but the whole thing disintegrated on contact. My notes say: “Lid has the structural integrity of a wet beermat.” Harsh? Yes. Accurate? Also yes.

8th place: the raisin grievance. This one had a decent enough pastry but a filling that tasted mostly of dark sugar and resentment. The raisins were sparse, the mincemeat dry, and the whole experience felt like a school assembly about saving electricity. Not offensive, just a bit joyless. A mince pie should suggest a fire and a paper hat, not a meter-reading.

7th place: the packaging triumph. Beautiful box. Lovely font. A little window that promised great things. Inside, the pies were small, shy and weirdly airy, as if they had been inflated at the factory and then allowed to deflate on the shelf. The lid stayed on, I will give it that, but only because there was not enough filling to cause any internal pressure. Style over substance, and the substance was mostly pastry.

The respectable middle

6th place: the reliable workhorse. Nothing fancy. Good colour, decent ratio, filling a bit sweeter than I like but perfectly pleasant with tea. This is the box you buy when you are hosting a quiz night and do not want to think too hard about it. It will not win awards, but it will not let you down either. My notes: “Fine. Would accept at a church hall.”

5th place: the crumbly one. Excellent flavour, genuinely lovely spicing, but the pastry had the temperament of an old sofa. It crumbled if you looked at it firmly. Delicious, yes, but you need a plate and a hoover nearby. If you are eating these on a sofa in front of a film, you will be finding pastry shards in the cushions until Easter.

4th place: the crowd-pleaser. This one hit the middle of the road so confidently that it almost became interesting. The lid held, the filling was generous, the sweetness was pitched at “everyone’s nan will approve”. It is not the box I would buy for a treat, but it is absolutely the box I would buy for a village hall bring-and-share. Safe hands.

The ones worth the trolley space

3rd place: the dark horse. I expected very little from this box and got a genuinely nice pie. The pastry had a bit of snap, the filling was boozy without being theatrical, and the lid stayed on when bitten. It was the only pie that made me say “oh” out loud, which is high praise for a Tuesday afternoon. If you see it on offer, grab it.

2nd place: the butter-ish beauty. You could smell the difference before tasting it. Richer pastry, a more balanced filling, and a lid that behaved like it had been trained. It cost more than the rest, and you could tell. This is the box for when someone is coming round and you want to look like you made an effort without actually making an effort. Excellent with tea, even better with a small glass of something.

1st place: the quiet champion. The winner was not the poshest and not the prettiest. It was the one where everything worked: golden pastry, a filling that tasted of fruit and spice rather than just sugar, and a lid that stayed put. It was the only pie I immediately wanted a second of, and the only one where the cat was removed from the room for everyone’s safety. It felt like a proper mince pie. No gimmicks. Just good.

What I would actually buy

If you are doing the big Christmas shop and need a box for the cupboard, buy the quiet champion or the butter-ish beauty. If you are feeding a crowd and want to spend your money on the actual meal, the reliable workhorse is absolutely fine. Avoid the wet beermat and the raisin grievance unless you are conducting your own audit and need the full set.

And a final note: warm them. Ten minutes in a low oven improves almost every mince pie in Britain. It makes the pastry feel cared for and the filling smell like the idea of Christmas rather than the memory of one. Serve with tea, or something stronger, and do not invite anyone who will ask whether the raisins are ethically sourced while you are trying to enjoy yourself.

Nine pies. One mug. A notebook with a cat paw on it. The festive season is officially open, and the trolley has been consulted.